


Oliver Welles/Bob Fraser

by thingswithwings



Series: Kissing Meme Crossover Promptfic [4]
Category: Slings & Arrows, due South
Genre: Ghosts, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-05-24
Updated: 2007-05-24
Packaged: 2017-10-24 05:09:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/259356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thingswithwings/pseuds/thingswithwings





	Oliver Welles/Bob Fraser

Throughout his long and illustrious career in the theatre, Oliver had, more than once, found himself in closets with strangely-dressed men. He had not, however, expected the trend to continue after his death, and so is momentarily taken aback.

"Oh, pardon me, I didn't know that anyone was in here," he says to the man in the . . . was that a Mountie costume? Why on earth would an actor be wearing a Mountie costume at the Festival?

Oliver is beginning to wonder if Geoffrey had allowed in some sort of painful new Canadian-content play about lumberjacks or somesuch when the man answers him. Oliver's grown used to people not answering him, partially because he's dead and partially because he's a theatre director, but this man, apparently, can see and hear him despite these two shortcomings.

"No, no," the man answers from beneath the brim of his Stetson, "not at all. Is this your closet?" As if standing at the entrance to a house, he stands to aside slightly and gestures for Oliver to enter.

Oliver doesn't know quite how to answer that question, so walks inside. The Mountie closes the door behind them, and . . .

It's the Kingston Little Theatre, circa 1974. His first project, the first theatre he built, held together with spit and duct tape. The roof leaks and the bathroom has no door and the stage is on a slight incline, and it's his.

He looks up at the Mountie, who smiles at him benignly.

"Are you a, what, a . . . an . . ." Oliver gestures ineffectually at him.

"Just a ghost like you."

Oliver reaches out and nudges the Mountie's shoulder with his fingers. To his surprise, the man moves, is moved, by Oliver's touch.

"And this is the afterlife." This place he built with his blood.

"Well, no, not really. It's where we start, I s'pose."

"Let me get this . . . let me see if I understand you. When we die, handsome men in fetish wear appear to whisk us off to a land of grassroots dramatic theatre."

The Mountie goes wide-eyed and stutters momentarily before responding. Interesting.

"I guess you could put it that way."

Oliver smiles. "Wonderful," he says, and, grabbing the Mountie by his lanyard, plants one on him.

In yet another move that Oliver wasn't expecting, the Mountie responds a little, moving his mouth to accept Oliver's tongue - really, interesting - before pulling back firmly, stepping back and coughing.

"Does this mean that I have to leave Geoffrey?" Oliver asks, after an acceptable pause.

The Mountie smiles sadly while tucking his lanyard back into place. "Not till you're ready. Or he is."

Oliver smiles, and surveys his new kingdom. "Then lead on, angel."


End file.
